A/N: Sorry for the delay. Football, and the holidays, and ennui. You know.
Oh, father tell me, do we get what we deserve?
Arya's steps were slow and heavy, thudding one after another with a weight foreign to her. Walking was a strange labor, burdensome, and she struggled to move. It was as if she had sunk halfway to her knees in a bog, the thick muck pulling and sucking at her boots. But there was no bog to be found, and neither was there muck. Rather, she was in an open chamber, moving over smooth stone floors with no obstacle in her path. The room was dark and empty and unnaturally silent. No threat was visible, no lurking danger crouched, waiting in the shadows, yet the very air crackled with menace and the downy hairs on the back of her neck rose, prickling her, an alarm without a tangible trigger.
Run.
The thought skittered through her brain then fled, as if even it could not bear to stay in that place one moment longer.
The girl came to the foot of a staircase, one she had climbed at least a dozen times before. Two dozen. She thought to turn back; to heed the warning of her senses; to whirl around and scramble through the front doors, fleeing into the street, running away and away, as fast and as far as her feet could carry her.
But then something pulled at her and she could do naught but proceed.
She raised her foot, taking the first step, then the next, and then the next. Her heart thudded dully in her chest as she advanced, giving cadence to her dread. When she reached the top of the stairs, she turned and saw the door she must open, and hesitated again.
Beyond that door, there is no peace, her little voice cautioned.
What, then? she wondered.
A reckoning, was the solemn reply.
Reluctance threatened to paralyze her, but somehow, Arya continued. It was that pull again. That pull made it impossible for her to stop herself. She approached the door, placed on hand on the latch, and pushed.
The girl entered the small chamber. It was dim and familiar. The moon shone through the open window, the only light in the room, and its beam fell upon a figure, still and quiet, cheek drained of its color. The breast was unmoving, drawing no breath. A shuffling step closer showed the figure to be that of a woman, reclined in her bed, with all the mute repose of a statue; lifeless. Her face was framed by dark curls, her eyes open and glittering like polished quartz. Two full strides should have brought Arya to her side, but she struggled to move forward, her feet still caught in that invisible bog. The woman's mouth was shaped into a frozen O and Arya could not bear to look at it for long, for there was something tragic and pitiful in the expression. The girl squeezed her eyes shut and tears escaped their corners.
Vaguely, Arya thought to be ashamed of her tears, of their futility, but that did not dry them.
"Murderer," she heard then, and the voice which spoke the word was so soft, she thought at first that it came from within her own head. "Murderer. You can't even bear to look at me."
Arya made herself open her eyes, gazing warily toward the bed, at the one who lay there, and saw her tears mirrored on the dead woman's face, two murky, wet trails streaking from glassy eyes. The girl was aware of her heart squeezing in her chest, the pain of it like a dagger slipped between her ribs. Haltingly, she bent over the corpse. She stared in growing horror at the stretched lips in their perfect, fixed oval, not believing the accusation could have emanated from there.
"Olive?" the girl said, her voice small and tremulous in a way it never was in her waking time.
Vaguely, Arya thought to be ashamed of her own fear, of its baselessness, but that did not assuage it.
As the girl watched, the pupils of Olive's shining eyes began to dilate. The growing obsidian discs crowded out the soft brown of the serving girl's irises until nothing remained that was not black and deep; a ghastly, vacant stare aimed at the rafters above. Though it should not have been possible, a soft sigh escaped the dead woman's throat. Arya wanted to snap back, to turn away and run, but she was as frozen and stiff as the corpse before her. Then, against all reason, Olive's lips began to move.
"It burns, Mattine," the corpse whispered, her unfocused eyes staring ever upward. "It burns and burns."
The assassin's head bent slowly, weighted by remorse, and grief, and a crushing helplessness. It was this helplessness which distressed her most of all. Arya's agony was etched starkly in her features and she shook as great, silent sobs gripped her. Through her tears, the girl stared into the eyes of her dead friend, with their impossible glint and their endless darkness. She wanted to say she was sorry. She wanted to beg for Olive's forgiveness, because she had not been able to save her; because she had brought the order with all its malice and menace into her life (and into the lives of their friends, Will and Staaviros, who had paid the same awful price as Olive); and because she had not unraveled the plot which would doom them all. She wanted to tell Olive that it wasn't the Bear's fault; that he was victim as much as she; that they had made him do it, but her voice was caught behind the sobs and she couldn't make the words form; couldn't force them up from her clenching throat. Finally, Arya managed one small, broken plea.
"Please," the girl choked. "Don't... blame... him."
"No," Olive said, her voice almost musical. As she spoke, sweet breath carried her words to Arya's ear, and the scent was like the gardenias the trading ships sometimes brought from Yi Ti; rare prizes for men like Atius Biro and the Sealord to plant in their walled gardens. "No, I don't blame my sweet Willem."
Arya reached for Olive's hand, slipping it between her own, lifting it to press a kiss to the unyielding flesh there. The Bear's lover felt stiff and cold, wrong, like the corpses left too long at the feet of sightless gods in the alcoves of the House of Black and White; corpses made by the poisoned waters of the temple's dark pool. But those were the dead rendered from all the loneliness and grief and suffering of Braavos, from pain or disease or injury too great to bear, willingly offering themselves to Him of Many Faces. That was not Olive; beautiful, buoyant, robust Olive, who existed in joy and hope and love and loyalty. She had never agreed to the sacrifice; had not crawled to the pool on her knees, begging for her final relief. She was not some disconsolate wretch, more terrified of what remained of her life than she was of the Many-Faced god's greatest and most dreadful gift.
Olive had not chased her fate, not knowingly, and so it felt cruel that she should now seem no different to Arya than those who had; those Arya herself had carried away and down as a Faceless acolyte; down to the deepest chambers of the temple.
Down to where they were stripped of valuables, and clothes, and faces, then bathed and tended with care before being fed to the eels.
"Sweet Willem had no choice. You gave him no choice. It's you I blame," Olive said, her black, unblinking eyes staring and staring as she made her accusation. "You murdered Mattine and you murdered me."
Arya drew her lips away from Olive's hand and laid it gently back on the narrow bed, but she could not pull away, for the stiff fingers of the corpse had intertwined with her own and held firm.
"No!" Arya said, her voice cracking painfully as Olive's dead grip tightened. "Mattine chose to drink from the pool. She traded her life for revenge! And the Bear... they made him kill you! I didn't know until it was too late. I didn't know!"
The smell of gardenias grew stronger, the air around the two friends becoming thick with the scent. Arya's stomach churned as the dead thing on the bed continued speaking in dulcet tones at odds with her words.
"They killed Mattine for you," Olive said, her voice like a hymn; like a dirge, "so you could steal her face, and come here to deceive us all with your false friendship."
"I didn't! They gave it to me! They made me wear it!"
"And my sweet Willem poisoned me, then held my pillow over my nose and mouth, all for you."
"I didn't know!" Arya cried. "I wouldn't have let him, if I'd known! I didn't know!"
"Murderer," Olive breathed sweetly. "You killed him, too."
With the instant certainty only attainable in dreams and nightmares, Arya knew the him Olive meant was Jaqen.
"That's a lie," she insisted, trying futilely to yank her hand from Olive's grasp. "He's not dead."
"Everything you love dies," the corpse continued in her lilting voice. "You killed him, by loving him, just as you killed me with your friendship."
"No." The girl's protest was ragged, but there was little conviction in it. The guilt she felt was too great for that.
"Your love is pestilence," the dead woman sang, and there was an edge creeping into her voice; an undertone of derision; of simmering hate. "A calamity visited on everyone around you."
Arya bit her lip hard, her attempt to wake herself up from the nightmare. She pulled and pulled her arm, hard enough to wrench her shoulder, trying to break free from Olive. The girl felt the warmth of her own blood as it flowed freely from the self-inflicted wound, over her lip and down her chin. The dead thing on the bed held her hand with a grip like iron, crushing the bones in her hand, and the girl cried out. But it wasn't the cracking of her bones which wrought the sound from her. It was the realization that Olive was right. If not for her friendship with Arya, the serving girl would be living still.
And if Jaqen truly were dead, it was his love of Arya which had doomed him to that fate.
He's not dead. He's not dead. He's not! Arya chanted internally, but Olive's words had planted a fear in her that nearly overwhelmed her.
But what if he is? Arya's little voice murmured to her.
"He's not!" she whispered aloud. "He's not! He's not!"
The corpse laughed, the sound of it high-pitched and ringing, not at all as Olive's laugh had been in life.
"He is. And before you're through, you'll kill my sweet Willem, too, your only true friend. Then you'll be all alone."
The blood from Arya's mouth which had spilled over onto her chin now splashed down her breast. The girl felt the sticky warmth seep through her clothes. So much blood. It was too much for a wound caused by her own teeth, and the girl looked down at herself. She was wearing a dingy shift, thick stripes of crimson decorating the front, marks left deliberately by the gore-coated flat of a longsword.
A girl should be bloody, too. This is her work.
A fierce longing gripped the girl then, conjured from the memory of Jaqen's words; of Jaqen's voice. She closed her eyes tightly, willing him there, even if it meant being once again a girl of one and ten, and nothing more than a captive slave in Harrenhal. If she could just see him once more, her Lorathi love… If he were only within her reach again… She would grab for him, hold onto him, grip him with the strength of Valyrian steel and never, never let him go.
Arya wept openly then. She could not contain it, and she could not spare the concern to be ashamed of it any longer.
Olive's grasp softened and her hand felt... strange. Arya looked down to where the corpse had gripped her and saw that Olive's flesh was loose and hanging now, open in spots. Worms and maggots worked in the rot that was spreading, carrion beetles skittering across their joined fingers. The heavy scent of the gardenias could not hide the stench of the decay then, and Arya began to retch violently, the bile burning her throat. The pale flesh of the corpse's face darkened and shrank, pulling away from the prominent places of her skull, exposing the bone. And still, the eyes remained wide, open and glittering, staring and staring and staring, seeing nothing at all.
"Shh," the Bear soothed, rocking his sister in his arms. She was wrapped in a thick fur, her cheeks damp with tears. "Shh."
Arya's lids fluttered open and she tried to make sense of what her eyes were telling her. It was dark, too dark considering she had laid her bedroll so near the fire. Not even an ember was visible. And she was being held close, cradled and warm, like a babe.
"You're safe," the Lyseni assassin was whispering to her, over and over, between shushing sounds.
"What..." She groaned, having difficulty finding her words in the confusion of her waking. Her dream, her nightmare, was reluctant to fall away and she could still feel Olive's grip on her hand. Before you're through, you'll kill my sweet Willem, too.
"I had the watch," the Bear explained. Arya blinked, trying to focus her eyes. As the blur of sleep cleared, she could see their fire in the distance. It had burned low, but was still visible, some thirty yards away, through the trees. They had covered enough distance on their second and third days of riding, and were far enough from any village or holdfast, that Harwin had felt it safe for them to enjoy a bit of warmth when they made camp that night.
"Why am I here?" she asked hoarsely.
"You were crying in your sleep," her brother told her. "I tried to wake you, but I couldn't, so I carried you away, so that the others..."
The Cat pushed her cheek into her brother's chest, closing her eyes and trying to shake off the image of Olive, dead and staring; rotting. The Bear was seated on a fallen log, holding his sister against him. She liked the feeling of it, the rocking, with his arms tight around her. It calmed her to be in the shelter of the Lyseni's embrace, and her mind quieted.
"I'm sorry," she said in a small voice. "It was... a nightmare."
She expected him to tease her about it, the uncharacteristic tears and the crying out enough that she could have awakened the camp. She thought he would laugh and say she owed him, for hauling her scrawny arse away so that she wasn't shamed in front of the company, but he didn't. He simply said, "Shh, I know. You're safe. I've got you."
Gradually, Arya relaxed. She quit grasping at her brother the way a frightened child grasps at his mother's skirts.
"Do you want to talk about it?" the Faceless knight asked.
The Cat sat up in her brother's lap and wound her arms around his neck, pressing her forehead against his jaw. Drawing in a deep breath, she said, "It was... Olive."
The Lyseni stiffened almost imperceptibly, but after a second, replied, "I dream of her, too."
"Probably not the way I just did, though," she muttered, fighting off the shudder waiting just beneath her skin as she thought of the carrion beetles crawling over Olive's ruined flesh.
She felt his cheeks lift as he smiled. "I hope not," he said, and the Bear's tone made it obvious that his dreams, at least, were happy ones, though perhaps not ones that would be considered decent. "Although... if you did, I'd like to hear about it."
The girl drew back from the large assassin and struck his bicep with her balled up fist.
"That's not funny!" she insisted. "It was a nightmare, and it was awful!"
"Ow," he whined, not really hurt. "It was just a jape, Cat. Although, if you ever do have that sort of dream, you can tell me..."
She growled at him, a warning that he heeded and his voice trailed off. They stilled, Arya's head once again resting against her brother, this time tucked neatly under his chin. The Bear rubbed his large hand gently up and down her arm, smoothing out the goose prickles that had arisen beneath her sleeve in the night's chill.
"Well?" he prompted after a while. Arya sighed, not sure she wanted to recount the details; not sure the Bear would really want to hear them. Instead, she asked him a question.
"Do you blame me?"
"Frequently," he replied, his voice tinged with light laughter. "If it weren't for you, I might be sleeping in my comfortable bed below the temple right now. Instead, I'm stuck with third watch in this frozen shit hole you call a homeland."
Arya snorted. "Frozen? Oh, Ser Willem, you're in for a terrible surprise when we cross the Neck. Our summer nights at Winterfell were usually colder than this!"
The large assassin groaned theatrically, bemoaning the fact that he might never again be able to sleep naked.
"Well, praise the old gods for winter, then!" the Cat declared, "if only because it keeps you in your smallclothes."
"Blasphemy," he pronounced. They chuckled together at that, but then the girl pressed her brother again.
"I'm serious, though. Do you?"
"Do I what? Blame you?"
"Mmm," she hummed, picking at the buttons of his leather jerkin absently.
"What is it that troubles you, sister?"
Too many things to name.
"What... happened to Olive..." she began.
"Was not your fault," he finished for her.
"But..."
"It wasn't your fault," the Bear repeated, more firmly this time.
"I wish I could be as sure as you," Arya whispered, now plucking at the jerkin's stitching near her brother's shoulder. He reached his large hand up and covered hers, stopping its nervous motion.
"Death is a gift," he said, pulling her hand from his shirt and pressing her knuckles against his lips. He breathed in and out slowly a few times, turning his face to rest his cheek against her fingers. Arya opened her palm and caressed the scruff of his unshaven face. "For Olive, it was a gift."
His sister knew what he meant. She knew he wasn't just spouting Faceless platitudes; that he meant he had spared Olive the pain that had been promised her at the hands of others if he failed in his trial. Arya even believed it; she believed that death at the Bear's hands was a great and terrible gift, for it was swift and painless when it might have been a slow torture meant to punish them all for their disobedience. But still, she ruminated.
"I will bear the burden of her soul for all time," the girl said.
"Do we believe in souls, sister?"
"Always."
"Then mine is surely blacker than this night."
"No," she said, drawing her hand away from his face and placing it over his heart. "Not you. You're the brightest thing left in my life."
"Well, to be fair, you lead a very dark life."
"I know."
"And it's going to get darker."
"Yes."
"Then you might just have need of my black soul," he concluded.
"It's your friendship I need, brother, nothing else."
"Well that, you will always have."
"Good," she said, pressing a quick kiss on his cheek. "And your soul isn't nearly so dark as you like to think."
The Bear sighed. "A thief can't wear a stolen jewel and claim not to be a thief. When he carries the evidence of his crime on his person, his guilt is plain for all to see."
"What are you talking about?"
"My face," he replied. "Or rather, my faces. I can't change my face and pretend I haven't tainted myself to earn the right to do it."
"Oh, Bear," the girl moaned, and it was her turn to try to soothe him. She shifted off his lap and sat on the log next to him, holding his hand as they stared out into the darkness together. They sat in silence for a good while, until the Lyseni assassin stretched out on the log, reclining until his head rested in Arya's lap. The girl pushed her brother's white blond hair away from his eyes and stroked his temple lightly with her fingertips.
"It was so strange, that night," he whispered. "The night Olive..." His voice trailed off and he sighed before continuing. "I left the inn... I left her... and I felt... completely numb, or... outside of myself, somehow. Like I was the one who had died."
"Like your insides had frozen," Arya said softly. "Or turned to stone."
"Like a dead man who somehow regains the power of movement, giving the appearance of life, though none exists."
"The heart has ceased to beat, because it has lost its reason to do so."
He reached up and squeezed her arm. "Just so."
They existed together in that moment of understanding, each thinking of a haunting loss which had left its mark. The Bear continued, unburdening himself to the person who understood him best.
"Jaqen walked with me, back to the temple, and he tried to comfort me, I think, in his way."
At the mention of Jaqen's name, Arya's heart thumped erratically beneath her breast. It robbed her of her breath. She grimaced but remained silent, waiting for the feeling to pass. After a pause, she asked, "What did he say?"
"Oh, something very Faceless," the Lyseni replied. "Like death comes for us all. Something like that." In his best approximation of her master's Lorathi accent, the Bear added, "Valar morghulis."
Jaqen had said it a thousand times. Ten thousand. More. They all had. But that night, Arya imagined the words took on a different meaning for her brother.
"He told me I did the right thing," the Bear said, and the ache in his voice as he pronounced the words was nearly palpable.
"You did," she assured him, stroking his cheek. "You had no choice."
Do you know what the interesting thing about the right choice is, little wolf?
"I said that to him, at the time. I told him that it wasn't as if I really had a choice." The Bear's voice cracked. "I couldn't bear to be praised for doing the right thing, the Order's idea of the right thing, as if I'd chosen it freely. As if I could have chosen to... kill Olive, if there was any other way."
"What did he say?"
"He said that there's always a choice."
"When the choice is between mercy or cruelty for the one you love, it's no choice at all."
"That's just it. He didn't know about the threats, against Olive or you. He was surprised when I told him."
Arya nodded. "He wouldn't have known. There's no way he would have allowed it if he had."
"No, I can't imagine that he would've, if only for your sake."
Arya blew out a long breath, steadying herself. She avoided thinking back on that time as much as she could, but their conversation, and her brother's need to speak of those injurious and cruel things that lived inside of them both, their shared hurts, drew her thoughts back to her last days in Braavos. She and Jaqen had been under the same roof then; had drifted past and circled around one another, carefully aloof but always, always aware. And in their private moments, times which were scattered and few and far too fleeting, they had defied the principal elder and they had loved each other, gently, completely, the recklessness of their impolitic hope for their future inviting their own ruin.
Memories of Jaqen, small bits of him that she carried with her to call up when she was brave enough, flickered through Arya's mind. She saw him, her Lorathi master, in the temple stairwell, in her chamber, in the garden amid the lemon and fig trees. Her fingertips remembered the texture of his scented hair; her mouth, the pressure of his thumb on her bottom lip, tugging it free from her teeth; her skin, the heat of his hand as he traced the scar on her shoulder. She recalled his purring tones as he teased her, and even the memory of it was enough to cause a shiver to travel along her spine.
Arya swallowed hard, trying to force the lump in her throat to sink back down into the pit of her stomach. There it might burn and ache, but it did not threaten to bring tears which once started, might never stop. She blinked, rubbing at her nose with the back of her hand and sniffing. She cleared her throat.
"You've never told me about that night," she said when she had the required control of her voice.
"My master instructed me not to speak of it," he replied. "But, even if he hadn't, I'm sure you can understand why it's not something I enjoy discussing."
"Yes," she murmured. "I can understand that very well. You don't have to say anything more." She continued smoothing his hair back from his face with one hand while the other rested on his belly. Her brother reached up then, taking her free hand between his own.
"No, but I think I'd like to talk about it now. If you don't mind." He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her calloused palm softly.
"Of course," Arya said. "You can tell me anything."
"When we got back to the temple, most of the masters were there, and the priests, just waiting for me. They were somber, so I guess it didn't seem strange to them that I was too, but I just kept thinking about how many of them I could stab before they killed me."
It was a feeling Arya understood very well. Memories of her failed final trial seeped in, but the rage and despair that accompanied those memories forced her to push them away. The Bear was her focus now. It had been nearly three moons since that night, and her brother had tended to her as carefully as any blood brother would. It was her turn to play caretaker now, and she could not let her own torments distract her from helping to mend his.
"You couldn't have killed enough of them to pay for your own life," she told him. "You're worth more than a thousand Faceless Men to me. I'm glad you didn't try."
"You tried," he reminded her, the bitter edge to his voice subtle, but present. "You even had some limited success."
"But I'm foolhardy and rash, remember?"
"Hmm," was his noncommittal reply. For a time, he lay quietly in her lap, thinking, and she let him, her fingers threading through his hair all the while. She knew he would speak when he was ready.
"Jaqen vouched for me," the Bear finally said. "He told them that I'd... done what was asked; what they… required. Then the principal elder made a speech then, solemn, like on the night of the acolytes' feast. You remember. Only death may pay for life, and such. Then he said the words over me, and I could feel myself changing when he did. It was nothing visible, but still, something shifted inside of me."
"The words? What words?"
"Some sort of prayer, or spell, maybe. They were old words; a language I hadn't studied. From Yi Ti, or Asshai, maybe."
The Bear repeated the Kindly Man's words for her.
"Asshai," she told him. "Definitely."
"Do you know what it means?"
"I can't translate it exactly. Jaqen didn't like for me to study the tongue of the Asshai'i, so I stopped once he came back from Westeros and began training me. He seemed almost... afraid for me to learn the language of the shadowbinders."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "I think he thought if I didn't master it, I would never be sent to the Shadow Lands on a mission. He'd been sent there once, and he didn't like to talk about it much."
"But you did study the language..."
"A little. It's a difficult one, and I only had time to learn the rudiments. And there are bits I picked up from some of the waif's potion books, and a few phrases I learned from the red priests who passed through Ragman's Harbor." And the words that enabled the rare tricks her master had taught her, the mostly innocuous spells Jaqen had learned during his time in Asshai. Only mostly innocuous because she didn't believe that blood magic could ever be called completely harmless. Someone had to bleed for it, after all.
"With your talent for languages, I'm surprised you didn't master it, even in that short time."
"It's important to practice what you've learned, or else you lose it," the girl reminded him, "and Jaqen never let me practice. He was superstitious about Asshai."
"Well?"
"Well, what?"
"What do you think the words mean?"
"Say it again. Slowly."
The Bear repeated the words and Arya concentrated.
"Blood of my blood," she said, "I think. Well, something blood of my blood. To take, maybe? To take the blood of my blood? Or, maybe to yield the blood of my blood?"
"Don't ask me. I have no idea."
"And then, something about all and none."
"Well, that clears it up," he snorted.
"I told you I didn't study the language long," the Cat growled, flicking his ear for good measure. "And so much for your theory that the words made something shift inside you. You said them to me twice and I didn't feel a thing!"
"Well, you didn't just murder your lover, either." The bitterness was back in his tone and the girl immediately regretted her japing.
"When will you realize that you're not the one responsible?" she asked softly. "Mercy is not murder."
The large assassin made a disgusted sound, signaling his inability to forgive himself for Olive's fate. It was a guilt the girl thoroughly comprehended, since she shared it. Hadn't she just awoken from a nightmare about that very thing? Arya tried again to persuade him.
"Even if you hadn't done it, and even if they somehow hadn't followed through with their threats against Olive, and me, and you, they would have placed someone else in front of you and handed you a knife. Maybe it would have been Jaqen. Could you have done it, knowing how it would hurt me if you did?"
"You're wrong. They wouldn't have put someone else in front of me."
"I'm not wrong. They would have made you kill someone. It had to be a blood sacrifice."
"Yes, a blood sacrifice," the Bear acknowledged, "but it couldn't be just anyone's blood."
"What?"
"You just said it. Blood of my blood, Cat."
"What are you talking about?"
"Haven't you figured it out, sister? It must be someone who means something to you. This magic is so powerful, it can only be bought with a true sacrifice. The price is very, very high."
Her brother spoke truly, and in the end, the price had been far too high for Arya.
"The order expects a demonstration that you have no attachments," the Lyseni continued. "How else can you be no one? The principal elder said as much that night. So, Jaqen wouldn't have worked for me. We had no attachment beyond the Order. For me, it had to be Olive. Or you."
"But... Robert Stone?" The girl furrowed her brow, remembering how the Rat had masqueraded as an acrobat and killed the traveling mummer soon after his arrival in Braavos. There was hardly time for them to develop any attachment.
"He was the Rat's stepfather, the only father our brother really remembers. He was also the father that abandoned the Rat in Braavos when he was only about seven."
"What?"
"There may have been as much hate as love there, but he was still family."
Arya was confused. "But... if the Rat was made to wear Jaqen's face during my trial, then..."
"Killing him wouldn't have been enough of a sacrifice for you."
Arya stared off toward the camp, thinking. The low fire in the distance became blurry as her gaze softened and she turned this new information over in her head.
"The Kindly Man meant for me to fail," she whispered slowly, the dawning realization making her head feel as if it were stuffed with cotton. "I would have failed, even if I had done what was asked of me." It seemed so obvious to her now. Before, when the Rat revealed his duplicity, Arya had thought her Westerosi brother had worn Jaqen's face at the principal elder's behest either to spare her Lorathi master (in the event that she proved more obedient than expected), or because Jaqen was already dead by then (how she hoped it was the former and not the latter!) Now, though, knowing that it wasn't the spilling of blood that was important so much as whose blood was spilled, the plot seemed even more sinister. "The Kindly Man never meant for me to earn my face."
"That's got to be it," the Bear agreed.
"But... why the pretense, then? Why even bother with the trial at all?"
"Think about it," the Lyseni said. "He must have needed for you to fail, and fail before the conclave, so he could legitimately exile you. After all, what are we without our traditions and our laws?"
"And our nefarious schemes," she murmured, still marveling at the newly realized deception.
"The principal elder exiled you when it was within his rights to execute you for your disobedience," her brother reminded her.
The Cat sneered, "Our leader is undoubtedly as benevolent as he is wise."
"I suppose being seen that way might be to his benefit somehow, but does that seem like a reason your Kindly Man would spare you? Just so that the order he leads would see him as merciful?"
Arya knitted her brows, thinking through the puzzle logically. "He needed me alive," she murmured. "Alive, but not Faceless."
The Bear nodded. "It's the only answer that makes sense."
"Our brother was just an expendable prop." Arya let out a soft whistle. "And how do you suppose Baynard feels about that?"
"He doesn't like to talk about it," the false knight told her, "but he's dedicated to the order."
"Just like his master," the girl muttered, thinking of the handsome man, remembering his words to her after her trial.
When I was asked to make the choice between my personal feelings and my duty to the Order, I chose wisely.
"And the opportunity to see you struggle must have been irresistible to our brother at the time. You'll recall that you two didn't always get along."
"I don't know that I'd say we get along now," the girl mumbled. "We just don't actively try to sabotage each other anymore."
"In time, I think you two will be great friends. He's clever, our Rat. You'll come to appreciate that."
"Don't place any wagers," the Cat warned. It was true that she had come to an uneasy peace with the rat-faced assassin, but their relationship was still tense, and he was, as the Bear had said, dedicated to the order. For that reason alone, the girl did not feel she should fully trust the Westerosi. She must always remember that the Rat had accompanied her across the Narrow Sea to do the Kindly Man's bidding, nothing more.
And, she had to assume, nothing less.
"Well, he's handy with a dagger," the false-Dornishman quipped. "I know how much that means to you, at least."
"He's less than judicious with his tongue, though. If he keeps pushing Gendry, he may find he's invited more trouble than he really wants."
She was referring to the ongoing battle that seemed to be taking place between Baynard and the blacksmith-knight. Mostly, it consisted of the Westerosi assassin making rude and pointed comments to Gendry as they rode and Gendry glaring at the Faceless squire and grinding his teeth in response. Arya could sense her old friend's temper rising, though, and she was not sure how much longer he would keep it in check. He was his father's son, after all.
The Bear did not seem concerned. "It's to be expected. Even a lowly squire, if he's from a respectable family, would disparage a knight of such dubious parentage. Hasn't that always been the way in Westeros? Those of noble stock look down upon the lowborn."
"Not all those of noble stock," Arya sniffed. "And Justan Carver's stock is no more noble than Gendry's." Less, even, since king's blood flowed through Gendry's veins, however unacknowledged the birth might be.
"But Baynard's is," her brother reminded her. "He's a minor nobleman from the Reach." The girl frowned at her brother. "He's wearing a face, Cat. You know how this works."
"He wears it a bit too gleefully."
The Bear narrowed his eyes, rocking his head back and gazing up at his sister's face. "Ser Gendry can defend himself against a mere squire, surely."
"He's not a squire. He's an assassin."
"Why all this sudden concern?"
"I'm not concerned."
"Hmm."
"Well, if I'm concerned, it's only because this conflict is an unnecessary distraction. We don't have time for brawls and duels."
"Who's dueling?" he laughed. "And anyway, I would have thought you'd be fine with someone putting Ser Gendry in his place."
"What?"
"It's obvious something happened between the two of you. I assumed you'd argued, and from the way you've both been acting, it looks like it got heated."
"I have no idea what you mean."
"Come on, Cat. What happened?"
"Nothing happened."
"Then why have you been ignoring him for two days, and why has he been staring holes into the back of your head as he rides behind you?"
"You'll have to ask Ser Gendry about his own behavior, but I haven't been ignoring anyone."
"Alright." The Bear's doubt was plain in his tone.
"I haven't," she hissed, her fingers tugging a little too sharply at her brother's hair.
"Ouch! I said alright!"
"Sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"You're lucky I'm such a forgiving man," he teased, "and that your lap is so comfortable. It makes me less willing to storm off."
She snorted. "You may be a forgiving man, but you're a terrible watchman. All of this lounging about, and in the meantime, the perimeter could have been breached a dozen times."
"It's true," he sighed, "I'm a better brother than a watchman."
"Yes," she agreed, bending down to place a kiss on his forehead. "That, you are."
The Bear smiled and sat up. "You should go back to sleep, Cat. You've a few hours before the dawn."
"Oh, I'm awake now. Trying to sleep would be useless for me. Why don't you go instead? I'll finish out your watch."
The Lyseni stood and stretched, saying, "And that, my lady, is why I love you."
"Is it?" she laughed, swatting at him with the back of her hand, sending him on his way.
"No," the large assassin replied quietly as he left her, and she could not say if his words were even meant for her to hear. "No, that's not it at all." His tone had become so melancholy just then that the girl found herself wondering at it, but by then, her brother was too far away to ask.
Arya shrugged, then stood herself and began to walk the perimeter, a small part of her feeling as if in taking her brother's watch, she was paying some sort of penance, however inadequate. The Bear had told her that Olive's fate had not been her fault, but the girl could not completely release the idea, and the torment of her nightmares did not seem sufficient recompense for her sins.
The Cat stalked through the trees, her ears and eyes alert for intruders but her mind preoccupied with considerations of guilt and innocence, of justice and restitution, of what was deserved and what was unfairly bestowed by the capricious hand of fortune.
And what was snatched away and crushed by the iron grip of the Order.
Acutely aware that she drew breath where others could no longer, Arya whispered her promise to Him of Many Faces, her steps moving in time with her prayer.
"Ser Ilyn," she began. "Ser Meryn. Queen Cersei…"
The night wore on, the Cat carefully treading around the camp, making no sound, listening to the soft snores of her companions as they dozed by the dying fire at their center. At least two hours had passed since she had sent her brother on to his slumber and all the company save her were fast asleep. It was for this reason that she was surprised and mildly alarmed to hear movement through the underbrush to the east. Instantly, the girl froze and made a quick head count of her company once again, assuring herself that no one had risen and wandered off to make water since her last pass near to them. Assured that all their number were accounted for, she slipped a slender knife from her sleeve and another from her boot, knowing the density of the trees would make a fight with longblades untenable.
Quick and quiet, the assassin darted to the far side of a wide soldier pine, flattening her back against the rough bark and training her eyes toward the sound of the footsteps as they grew closer. Neither the moon nor the fire threw enough light to reveal the intruder, so the girl waited, and she listened, hidden by the deep darkness of the wood in the night.
Even her breathing quieted, and she focused all her concentration on the sound of boots on the forest floor. Only one interloper. She was certain. Well, he would soon be sorry he hadn't brought friends with him—she could dispatch one foe before he had time to realize he'd be set upon, if it came to that. After a moment, the girl determined the best point of interception and moved further from the camp and nearer to the one who approached, past sentinels and pines, ashes and elms, her step swift and light, matching the pace of the intruder's own. Syrio was with her then. Quick as a snake, she thought, moving to her point of ambush. There she stood, still as a shadow, calm as still water, biding her time.
Fear cuts deeper than swords.
Her mouth curled up into her malicious smile.
Just as the prowler stepped past her position, Arya sprang, leaping onto the man's back and placing the cold blade of one knife across his windpipe while the other bit at his flank, at the level of his kidney.
"Identify yourself, friend, and state your business," Arya whispered in his ear. "Make haste and speak softly, or I'll open your throat." She pushed the blade more firmly against his neck then, ready to act quickly if required. She could not risk him crying out for any of his friends who might by lying in wait nearby.
"For my father's sake, stay your blade, my lady. I mean you no harm."
She knew the voice, hoarse as it was.
"Brynden Blackwood?" Her tone was one of bewilderment. "What in the seven bloody hells are you doing here?" This last part, she hissed, partly angry that she had nearly killed him, and partly angry that he had managed to track them somehow.
"If you'll remove your blades and kindly hop off my back, I'll explain." His voice was strained but she did not ease the pressure on his windpipe.
"How many in your number?" the Cat demanded.
"There's only me."
She hesitated a beat, judging the truth of his reply, but withdrew her blades and hopped down. Once her feet were planted firmly on the ground, she circled around the heir to Raventree Hall, putting a few paces between them (enough distance that she calculated a thrown dagger could find its home before the knight's long stride closed in on her. She did not expect violence, but there was a practical part of her Faceless training, a part which had become so deeply ingrained, it could not be easily shed).
"Alright then," the girl said, coming to rest in front of him, "talk." The blades in each hand pointed harmlessly at the ground, but it was a ruse. They weren't ideal as throwing knives (the suitability for throwing was all in the balance of the things), but they were sharp, and another part of her training had taught her to utilize what was available to her. The tension coiled in her wrists could easily hurl the daggers with enough force to pierce bone.
A skull, say.
Brynden cleared his throat. "As soon as I realized you'd run away, I followed."
"I didn't run away," Arya interrupted. "I'm not an errant child in the throes of a tantrum, or some giddy lady eloping with an unsuitable match."
"No, of course not."
"I simply left the company."
"In the middle of the night, stealing off without so much as a word…"
"Because I knew you would oppose me if I told you!"
"And I would have been right to do so," the knight replied somewhat testily. "I did not take you for a fool, Lady Arya, but this nonsense has made me wonder…"
"Careful, ser," the girl warned, her voice low and steady. "You'll want to consider your next words."
Brynden sighed. "I made a promise to my father to keep you safe. I do not consider allowing you to ride into the mouth of the gathering Lannister and Frey forces in keeping with that vow."
"We're not riding into anyone's mouth," she insisted.
"As good as."
"I'm simply…"
"Trying to reach your mother," he finished for her. "Yes, I know. And since she right now sits in the center of the western Riverlands, where tens of thousands of soldiers are even now amassing, then yes, you are, in fact, riding directly into the enemy's hands."
They stared across the dark space between them, each regarding the shadowy form of the other. Arya did not rely on her eyes to tell her the knight's mood, but considered his tone and listened to the pace of his breathing. He was irritated, no doubt, but trying hard to contain himself, though whether out of true respect for her station or in some hope of winning her over with (forced) kindness, she could not say. She smiled her lopsided smile, though he could not see her well enough to appreciate it.
"Are you here to stop me, then, Ser Brynden? By yourself?" The sweetness of her tone did not disguise the threat behind her words.
"I'm here to reason with you."
"And if that fails?"
The knight blew out a great breath. "Failing that, then I'm here to pledge my sword to you."
"What?" she laughed. His answer was most unexpected.
"My lady, I will do all that is within my power to keep you safe. If I cannot make you see that our best course is to journey east as we planned…"
"As you planned," she muttered.
"…then I will ride by your side and cut down any man who dares raise his hand against you."
For a moment, Arya was speechless. She stared hard at the knight, but the dark kept her from studying his face to read his sincerity. The girl swallowed and closed her eyes, just for a moment. She reached and she felt.
It was a quick impression, a sense of hope that dwindled as acceptance rose. There was undeniably determination. And something else…
Anticipation. Of blood and steel (how well she knew those thoughts!) and of safeguarding her, though she had told him she would never have need of his protection. That shared memory came to her, but through his eyes, for she saw herself walking away from Brynden in her chamber at Raventree Hall. I will never require your rescue, ser, she was saying as she bent to retrieve some blades from among the broken remnants of her wash basin.
Gods, did I really sound so smug? she wondered with a frown, breaking her concentration. Still, she had seen enough.
He had said he would protect her, and Arya could tell he meant it. Even so, she felt obligated to question him.
"You… wish to…"
"Ride with you and shield you from violence," he finished. "And if I cannot convince you to take shelter under my father's protection at Harroway, then gods willing, I will keep you undiscovered and bring you safely to Acorn Hall so that you may see your mother again."
He spoke truly, she could hear it in his tone, but something niggled at her. After a moment, she picked it out.
"Acorn Hall?"
"Yes, my lady."
"And how, pray tell, did you know my mother was making for Lord Smallwood's house?"
"Ah."
Arya adjusted her grip on her daggers and she tensed ever so slightly. "Well?" She glowered impatiently.
The knight was reluctant to answer, but he did anyway. "When my brother came with word of the banners being called, he…"
"Yes?"
"He told me of your plan to break away from the hunt and ride for Acorn Hall."
"Your brother…" Arya repeated in confusion. Her voice trailed off as she thought for a moment, then it came to her and she seethed, "Lady Smallwood!"
"You mustn't blame her, my lady. She feared for your safety and after we rode out on the hunt, she brought her concerns to my father."
Brienne was foolish to trust her, the girl thought. But then, considering the circumstances, the knightly woman really hadn't had much choice in the matter. It did, however, solidify her belief that her circle of trusted companions must be kept small, and that did not bode well for Ser Brynden's petition to ride along at her side.
The Cat stalked closer to the knight.
"Answer me this, Ser Brynden," the girl purred dangerously. "Why shouldn't I kill you where you stand, bury you in these woods, and ride away from this place at daybreak? Who would even know that we'd met this night?"
"You're no merciless killer, my lady."
She laughed bitterly. If he only knew… "I'm afraid you'll have to do better than that, ser."
"Then you'll spare me for the love you bear my father and my sister."
"Do you think it compares to the love I bear my own mother? Your father would keep me from her, if it were within his power."
"You mistake his intent, Lady Arya. He doesn't seek to keep you from your mother, he only desires to protect you from your enemies."
My enemies need protecting from me, she thought, lips twisting into her malicious smile once again. Brynden continued to state his case.
"And you won't kill me because you trust me. You may not want to trust me. You may not understand why it is that you do. But, you do. You cannot deny it, and you cannot afford to throw away someone you trust. Not when you are surrounded by enemies on all sides." He sounded confident.
And seven bloody hells, he was right! She did trust Ser Brynden, and no amount of knowing she shouldn't or insisting that she wouldn't could change the fact that she did.
Annoyed with herself, she persisted in her resistance, giving way to petulance. "Lord Blackwood would cease to wish for my protection if I sent him your head in a burlap sack."
"Have you a burlap sack to spare?" Brynden teased. "You lit out of our hunting camp so quickly, I rather worried you would run short of supplies in a day."
"You're not helping your case, ser," the Cat growled. Brynden sighed, then took a different tack.
"Why create an enemy where you might make a friend?" the knight replied reasonably. "My father accepts the sovereignty of the Winter Throne. He bears your family true affection. He bears you true affection. He is willing to pledge both blood and treasure to your cause…"
"I have no cause!" she barked impatiently.
The knight breathed out audibly, and he worked to make his voice sound sensible rather than patronizing or judgmental.
Or exasperated.
"My lady, I know you are fond of saying it, and perhaps you truly wish it to be so, but I'm certain that when the time comes, you'll feel compelled to do your duty."
A girl must promise. A girl must swear to a man.
Arya swallowed hard and she could almost feel Jaqen gripping her forearms across an inn table, boring into her with his bronze eyes, awaiting her agreement.
I swear, Jaqen. I will do my duty. She could not have resisted him in that moment had she tried.
Whatever is asked, he had emphasized.
I will do my duty, whatever is asked.
It was a promise she had been unable to keep. The Order had perverted the very meaning of duty, and they had forced her to break her vow to her master, because fulfilling it would have been an even worse betrayal.
Duty.
She snorted quietly at the thought of it.
For all they blathered on about her duty, the men around her did not seem to understand what it meant for her at all. Harwin, Lord Blackwood, and Ser Brynden spoke of her duty when what they really meant was her acquiescence.
To their ideals
To their interests.
To their desires.
Arya had learned very well how men might twist such a notion, duty, and use it to their own advantage. The Kindly Man was a master of that particular craft, and she had learned it at his feet.
At his feet, and under his thumb.
She had been marked by the elder's tuition, scarred by his final instruction, deep on the inside. But in that scar, there was another lesson.
A lesson about duty itself.
She had learned that no man could assign it; that the truth of it was writ in one's very bones. It had a feel, a weight which was not heavy enough to disable her but was too substantial to dismiss. It was an instinct, one she could choose to ignore but knew she should not. It became a force, like the current of a river, sweeping her along, less troublesome to accept than to fight. It was grey and white, the colors of a broken house she would avenge. It was bread and salt, and what they should mean, and what they hadn't. It was fangs and pelts and pups grown into fearsome beasts, some fallen and some still fighting. It was what she understood of love and what she had left of it: a mother's love, and a father's, a most beloved brother's, and her own love for them all and for a man she could hardly bear to remember but could never possibly forget. Her duty was the guidon she would follow into battle, a blazing standard her eyes alone could see.
Against those lessons, Ser Brynden stood no chance, despite his optimism.
I'm certain that when the time comes, you'll feel compelled to do your duty.
My duty is vengeance, she thought, but how could she tell Ser Brynden that? He would never accept it, and neither would his father, or any of the River lords for that matter. Her plans flew in the face of reason, as they understood it. If she made known that she intended to take the lives of her enemies by her own hand (and not by proxy, or in battle with an army stretched beyond seeing before her), they would think her foolish, or mad, or both. They would conspire to lock her away, under the guise of protection (protection from her own ambition, and in protection of theirs). The truth, in this case, would complicate her path immeasurably. Better to allow the knight to think her weak, or confused, or uncertain of her place in the world.
(In reality, she had never been more certain of anything in her life than she was of her purpose in Westeros: to deliver the names on her list to the Many-Faced god so that she might make her way back to his temple to deliver him one final name, or die in the effort.)
"You know naught of my duty, Ser Brynden," Arya grumbled. "Your father may recognize the sovereignty of the Winter Throne, but I had no part in my brother's rebellion. I would not have chosen a crown for him had I been there to have a say, so how can I now claim it for myself?"
"I would not have thought you fickle…" the knight began, his voice heavy with censure.
"Fickle?" She nearly spat the word, so bitter was it on her tongue. It was an insult on par with ladylike and silly and simple minded, as far as Arya was concerned. The giggling, empty-headed ladies at court were fickle, granting one knight their favor before finding a rich lord's son more handsome; demanding a dress of Myrish lace for their nameday, then spurning it for one of Dornish silk. She wasn't fickle. The ghost in Harrenhal was decisive. The Cat was reliable. Arya Stark was loyal.
A man's reason was faithful.
To Arya, fickle was the crown worn by the exact woman she had worked so very hard never to be.
"Yes. Fickle. In the camp, when my brother came, you lobbied to be kept informed."
"What are you talking about?" the girl asked, laughing uncomfortably.
"You invoked your right to be involved in the business of the River lords as the only viable representative of the Winter Throne."
"I…"
"But now you say you don't even consider the throne to be legitimate," Brynden continued, ignoring the girl's sputtering.
"I didn't mean…"
"So, a few days ago, you claimed the right of blood that today you say you don't even believe in?"
"Well, I…" Realizing she sounded flustered (because she was), she halted and huffed.
Damn him! Damn him! Damn him! She was peeved. It had only been meant as a mask, this claim to her brother's throne, and since she'd believed she would never see Ser Brynden again, he should never have been able to use it against her. Damn the man and his ridiculously good tracking skills!
The Cat's mind moved quickly as she sought a deflection. After mere seconds, she seized upon it.
"If we're speaking about words exchanged in the camp as if they are some sort of binding accord, I'd remind you that you promised to tell me all." The girl pitched her voice lower, attempting to mimic the knight's timbre. "All that I know, you shall know, my lady."
"And, so you do."
"You forgot to mention that Lady Smallwood had revealed my plan to make for Acorn Hall!"
"Well, I wasn't sure I believed it. It wasn't until you ran that the intelligence was confirmed." The knight tried not to chuckle at Arya's growl as he spoke, but he was not entirely successful. "Besides, it was the telling that was promised, not the timing of it. And now you know all, so my vow is fulfilled." She could hear the smile in his voice and it made her feel like poking a hole in his gut. She rolled her neck to relieve the tension and curled her fingers on the dagger in her left hand slightly tighter. "Besides, I would have mentioned it to you on the hunt, if only you'd stayed for it."
"Enough." Her utterance was quiet but sharp.
"I am at your service, my lady." Brynden bowed slightly as he spoke. Arya could make out his features better now, for though the sun had not yet broken the horizon, the night had given way to the grey of pre-dawn. The sunrise was not far off.
The girl thought a moment before she spoke. "How do I know your men aren't trailing us at a distance, ready to descend at your signal?"
The knight sounded surprised at her question. "To what end, my lady?"
"To bring me back to your father's house. To imprison me."
"Imprison!" Brynden scoffed. He shook his head.
"You might not call it that, but the result would be the same."
"Protection is not captivity, Lady Arya."
"It is if it's behind the walls of Raventree Hall. Or at Harroway. Or anywhere else that isn't leading me closer to my mother!" Or those who have wronged my family. Or him that separated me from…
She closed her eyes for a moment, pushing away the hurt that necessarily welled up when she thought about the Kindly Man and what he had done to her. The knight used her pause to reassert his loyalty.
"I've said my sword is yours," he reminded her. "I've said I'd ride at your side."
"Rather reluctantly, though, I thought…"
Exasperated by her doubts, the heir to Raventree Hall inhaled sharply through his nose. Arya imagined that as a man used to command, it must rankle him greatly to have his words questioned by a girl of six and ten. The thought made her smile a little. Admirably, his voice was steady and resolute when he next spoke.
"Wherever you may go, my lady, I will follow. To my father's house, to Harroway, straight down the enemy's throat or across all seven hells. I may not think it wise, and I won't promise to stop trying to persuade you of the safer course, but your path is mine."
Arya was surprised at how the knight's declaration affected her. It made her feel somehow… larger. She wondered if this was how Robb felt when the Stark bannermen had pledged fealty and followed him south.
What a strange thought, her little voice murmured.
The problem of Ser Brynden's arrival turned over in her head for a moment. Harwin would no doubt be gratified to find the Riverlander had joined the party. Gendry was another matter entirely, and the Rat would no doubt wonder how this would affect his mission (in the same way she had wondered how it would affect her own) and would likely craft a plan to murder the knight in his sleep should the need arise. Still, they would all have to see that Ser Brynden was a capable knight and commander, and he undoubtedly knew this land better than any among them, an asset on a journey such as theirs. He was also like to understand the political climate more thoroughly, knowing who they could trust and who they could not. Arya had no illusions about where his ultimate loyalty lay, though. Brynden may have desired a marriage contract with her, but that wish as well as his pledge to protect her was more rooted in his father's ambitions rather than in any affection the heir to Raventree Hall may have felt for her.
Thinking of her own family, though, and of what spurred her along her journey, she found she could not fault him for his own motivations.
Still, she knew that keeping the knight among their company would be a calculated risk. Arya thought back to something the Bear had said on their journey from Saltpans when she had questioned the wisdom of accepting the help of the House of Black and White by way of gold and horses.
As long as their aim does not interfere with our own, why not take what is freely offered?
There was wisdom in the large assassin's words and she saw its application in this instance as well. Her mind was made up. She would not to oppose the Blackwood heir, leastways not until he crossed her.
"Very well, Ser Brynden. You may ride with us, providing you don't hinder me."
His smile was genuine and easy to read in the rising dawn. He reached out and took her hand. "I hope to make you glad you didn't send my head to my father in that burlap sack you may or may not have brought along," the knight replied, then bowed slightly and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand.
The snapping of twigs by heavy boots interrupted their meeting. Both lord and lady cast their eyes toward the noise to find a decidedly grumpy-looking Gendry approaching them, squinting against the light of the rising sun. When he was within easy ear shot, he addressed the pair in a tone which barely disguised his annoyance.
"Well, what's this then?"
Just as Arya had suspected, Gendry had been less than pleased at Brynden's return while Harwin had difficulty containing his glee (though glee for a displaced Northerner consisted of little more than a brisk nod of his head and a muttered greeted along the lines of, "Aye, it's good to see you, milord.") For her part, Lady Brienne was gracious but wary, though her misgivings seemed overshadowed by the guilt she felt at having discussed their plan with Lady Smallwood, leading to Ser Brynden's discovery of the scheme in the first place. Ser Willem had said little to his lady about it, but welcomed Brynden cordially enough. Predictably, Baynard exploited Gendry's discomfort over the next several days of riding and on the third eve after Ser Brynden's return, Arya had to step in before the two men came to blows while setting up camp.
"You always go too far," the Cat muttered quietly in the assassin's ear.
"He deserves this and more for his absurdity," the Rat grumbled. "You'd think you were his wife, cuckholding him, the way he sulks and scowls." The false-squire walked away and Arya's cheeks burned. She looked over at Gendry briefly then, at his dark glare, but said nothing and quickly walked away. In her haste to escape, the girl nearly careened into the Lyseni assassin.
"Are we set upon by bandits?" the Bear japed, catching Arya's arms and steadying her. "What are you running from?"
"I'm not running," she lied, "I'm just…"
Ser Willem glanced over top of the girl's head and saw the blacksmith-knight frowning after her and his squire stalking away from the scene. He turned and led his sister away, toward the horses, saying something about helping her retrieve her bedroll. When they had put distance between themselves and their companions, the Lyseni commenced his interrogation.
"What happened?"
"Just the Rat being himself," she frowned. "I told you this would…"
"Not that," the Bear interrupted. "It's time you told me what happened between you and your blacksmith."
"He's not my blacksmith," the girl retorted.
"Oh," her brother laughed, "oh, he most certainly is. If not yours, then whose? He's only on this journey because of you. You may not want him, but he's yours, m'lady."
Arya glared up at the large man at that last. He had mimicked Gendry's Flea-Bottom accent to perfection.
"Are you going to tell me what happened?"
The girl folded her arms over her chest and looked away as the false-knight unstrapped her bedroll from Bane's saddle and hefted it under his thick arm.
"Fine, then," he said, "I'll just guess. I think I can figure it out. On your watch one night, or his perhaps, feelings ran high, and when he declared his ardent love for you, you found yourself unable to resist him. Tell me, sister, is he more graceful in bed than he is with that greatsword?" His words had a teasing quality, but there was a hint of something else behind the jape. Disappointment, maybe. Or anger.
"What?"
"And then, you probably started feeling guilty, like you'd betrayed Jaqen…"
"Betrayed Ja…"
He continued as if she had not spoken. "Did you refuse to let our bastard knight bed you again? Is that it? And now that you've spurned him, he's angry and you're embarrassed? It would explain a lot."
"I didn't… He didn't…" The girl was so addled by her brother's suggestion that she had trouble forming her sentences. Her instinct was to reach for a dagger, any dagger, but she stayed her hand. "I wouldn't!" she finally managed.
"Why not?" the assassin asked, careless, shrugging. "He's handsome enough, and you're not put off by things like station or lack of fortune or breeding."
"Breeding!"
"I'd expect any other lady of good name to feel beholden to such things, but not you, so…"
"It was just a kiss!" Arya interrupted. She spoke through gritted teeth.
The Bear narrowed his eyes, nodding, and began to walk toward Arya's tent to deposit her things. "Ah, so that's it. A kiss."
The girl could see that her brother had maneuvered her into answering the question she had avoided for days.
"It's not what you think," she insisted weakly at his retreating back. She stared after him briefly then scrambled to his side. "It didn't even mean anything!"
"It obviously meant something to him," her brother admonished, looking down at her with a furrowed brow. "Have you lost your senses completely?"
"You don't understand…"
"No, I don't. I really don't. Not half a week past, you were lamenting the distraction of some bawdy jests and japing between a squire and a knight, when all along, it was you creating the tension. You are the distraction."
The Cat became angry. "Well, who was it that told me in the training yard there's no sin in flirting? Who said a harmless bit of romance might take my mind off things?"
"So, it's a romance, is it?"
"No!"
"You're using Ser Gendry as a distraction from your troubles?"
"No!"
The Bear pulled up short and snapped his head down, scrutinizing his sister's face. "Is it more than that to you? More than flirting?"
"I wasn't flirting!" The girl groaned her frustration.
"Speak sense, my lady. You just said there's no sin in flirting."
"No, you said that. I was merely pointing out your hypocrisy."
"So… you didn't kiss him?"
"No, I did, but not like you mean."
"Then how?"
"It was because he was sad." She realized how stupid she sounded even as she said it.
The large assassin laughed, a short, humorless sound. "Because he was sad!"
"Look, I've kissed you, dozens of times, when you were sad."
"Not dozens."
"Dozens. And not once did it make you frown and scowl at me for a week afterwards."
"So… you kissed his forehead? Or his cheek? The top of his head?" the Bear asked rhetorically.
"Well… no."
"I think I've spotted the difference, my lady."
"Why are you harassing me so doggedly?" the Cat demanded. "I know you. I know you don't think I was being the least bit… romantic with Ser Gendry."
"It's not what I think that should worry you," the assassin replied pointedly. He glanced past Arya, toward her tent, where Gendry stood waiting with troubled look on his face.
"Oh, gods," she groaned pitifully, "will I ever be free of this vexation?"
The Bear snorted. "What vexation is that, sister? The vexation you created with your recklessness?" As per usual, he did not have to add.
"The vexation caused by men and their unreasonable expectations!" She looked away from the blacksmith knight, turning her face pleadingly up to the Lyseni. "I don't want to do this right now. Save me!"
He laughed. "There is a Braavosi saying, sister, one you'll recall. Something about what you have to do when you make your own bed…"
In High Valyrian, the Cat muttered a quick suggestion of what her brother could do with his Braavosi saying. He handed her the bedroll he had been carrying for her and laughed as he walked away, leaving her to deal with her vexation alone.
Way Down We Go—Kaleo